


Midwinter Sweets

by tibeyg



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Canon Era, Fluff, M/M, Schmoop, Sharing a Bed, Winter, angst (Mild)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-15
Updated: 2017-12-15
Packaged: 2019-02-10 01:26:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12901014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tibeyg/pseuds/tibeyg
Summary: Little blooms in winter, the bitter-dead season. But for a new conqueror and his humble bedwarmer, the warmth of love catches aflame even in the chillest of nights.





	Midwinter Sweets

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Narlth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Narlth/gifts).



> For Narlth, who wanted a bedwarming fic. Hopefully, it's heartwarming too.

Arthur conquers the lands of Lot of Orkney at that delicious cusp between autumn and winter, that fragile moment when the leaves suspend, red as cheeks, between clinging and falling. And fall they do, swirling and crunching in a pile at his feet, catching on his cloak as he proceeds to the dais to claim the crown of the first King of Albion, newly-forged.

He winters at Lot’s castle.

The snows set in fast, after that. His soldiers are too grateful for the shelter that the castle provides to complain about being delayed home. Arthur is thankful that he did not have to besiege Lot, for there is plenty of food stockpiled in the granaries. Each night, he feasts his troops sumptuously, their tables flowing with meat and wine. Lot’s courtiers are won over quickly with promises of new lands, and quickly join in the nightly celebrations.

And night by night, the castle grows colder.

It has been built to withstand the harshest of conditions, being so far up north, but there are limits even to how much chill the stones can shut out. Each night, Arthur settles beneath a pile of bearskins, flames roaring across the room. The walls of Lot’s former chambers are muffled in tapestries and wollen rugs, but it is still bitingly cold, especially when one is alone. He almost envies his men for being able to curl up with each other to share their living heat.

He voices this to Leon one day, just idly, and Leon’s ginger eyebrows rise.

‘I have made a grave oversight,’ says Leon. ‘I’ll fetch the steward at once.’

That night, as Arthur is readied for bed by a servant, the steward ushers in a young man.

‘What’s this?’ says Arthur, as the servant tugs a woollen shirt over his chest. 

‘I have found you a bedwarmer,’ says the steward. ‘It was customary for Lot to have one, and it is my error to not have found one for you either.’

Arthur runs an eye over the young man. He is pale and angular, dressed in the ragged garb of a peasant. He does not look particularly warm.

‘My blood runs warmer than it looks,’ says the man, guessing the motive behind Arthur’s assessment.

‘Well, I shall trust your judgement, steward,’ says Arthur. His eyes meet the man’s, and he wonders at the flash of deep blue he sees in them. He dismisses the servants with an imperious flick of the wrist, and turns to the bed.

The man is sitting on the edge of the mattress, on top of the bearskins. He is still dressed in his peasant garb, and he stares openly at Arthur.

‘I’m Merlin,’ he says. ‘I’ve never really done this… bedwarming business before.’

‘I don’t suppose it requires much experience.’ Arthur rolls his eyes.

‘I’m looking forward to sleeping here,’ says Merlin. He runs a hand luxuriantly over a skin. ‘It’s much nicer than what I had at home. I’m from Ealdor, this very small village just south of here, and I didn’t even have a bed there. I have one here, of course, but it’s nowhere near as warm as this.’ He’s still sitting there, stroking the furs. ‘I’m apprenticed to the physician, Gaius. He’s probably quite cold now, though.’

‘Merlin, would you do me a favour?’

‘Yes, sire?’

‘Shut up.’

Merlin clamps his lips down, almost comically, in a somewhat birdlike manner. Arthur fights down the urge to laugh, projects the image of an untouchable conquering king, and clambers into bed. It’s still chilly beneath the covers, having cooled down during the daytime. Arthur sighs.

‘Anytime you’re ready,’ he tells Merlin curtly.

‘What?’ says the man.

‘Get in here,’ snaps Arthur. ‘Do your job, warm my bed.’

It spurs Merlin into a flurry of activity. He flounders off his perch, rucks up his side of the covers - letting in all the cold air, and making Arthur huff in frustration - and upon careful instruction - gritted out through irked teeth - shucks off his peasant’s clothes and put on the woollen shirt which, by rights, are Arthur’s. Arthur, however, is not quite prepared to share a bed with dirty roughspun, so he commanded it.

‘And don’t be noisy when you wake up,’ Arthur says, and falls asleep.

*

‘Rise and shine!’

The sound of his bed curtains being ripped apart, accompanied with the blast of frigid air it brings, wrests Arthur from his slumbers.

‘Shut up!’ he groans into a pillow.

‘Come on, it’s a gorgeous day!’ Merlin crows. ‘Look, it’s not snowing any more!’

There is no light from outside. Arthur buries his head under the bearskins.

‘I’m going back to Gaius’!’ Merlin shouts. ‘Good day, your majesty!’

Arthur, becoming aware of the disgusting grit of sleep in his eyes, burrows further into the mattress, hating the man.

When he returns to consciousness, he becomes supremely aware of the cold. Merlin’s heat has leached out of the bedclothes, and Arthur’s is not sufficient by itself. He resigns himself to wakefulness, dressing himself warily as the air bites at exposed flesh, and reignites the hearth before awaiting breakfast.

*

‘That bedwarmer you got me is terrible,’ Arthur says to Leon.

‘Don’t blame me,’ says Leon. He stuffs another leg of chicken into his mouth. ‘The steward got him.’ His vowels muffle around the bits of chicken, and Arthur is a bit disgusted.

‘That bedwarmer you got me is terrible,’ Arthur says to the steward when he’s summoned over.

‘He’s the only suitable one we could get in such short notice.’ the steward says, petulant. ‘We usually get a farmboy, but the battle pushed all our schedules back. Had to find someone from within the castle.’

‘Hmph,’ says Arthur. 

Arthur finds the tower of the physician, Gaius, after a few circuits around the castle. The door of fraying wood is ajar, and pivots open at the brush of his gloved hand. A bloom of warmth opens before him. It is cluttered and cosy inside, with the background crackle of a flame crawling merrily over a hearth. He hears the clatter and scrape of pots and implements, and spots the source: an older man, white-haired and wrapped with dignity in worn robes, sprinkling herbs into a small, smoking cauldron, and Merlin beside him, ruddy cheeks aglow in his pale, smiling face.

Arthur watches for a moment like an intruder. He wonders if they are kin, though they bear little resemblance. There is something in their exchange, Merlin’s teasing grin and Gaius’ tight-lipped frowns of mock-disapproval, with which he feels distinctly unfamiliar. It is slightly unsettling.

Gaius notices him first. The herbs drop from his fingers as he hurries to incline his head. Merlin, registering later, breaks into an even wider grin, one which bends his eyes into little, fringed half-moons.

‘Your Majesty!’ gasps Gaius.

‘Afternoon!’ chirrups Merlin.

Arthur says, wrong-footed by their reactions, ‘Please, there’s no need to bow. I’ve just, er, come to speak with -’ He gestures, abortively, at Merlin.

‘By all means,’ says Gaius. ‘I hope you had a comfortable sleep with him. I’m very grateful; we can’t quite afford more bedclothes, and it does get very cold in Merlin’s room.’

Arthur feels even more wrong-footed. He gestures, frowning, at Merlin, and leads to a corner of the room, away from Gaius.

‘About your waking patterns,’ he starts.

‘Ooh yes,’ says Merlin. ‘I love the mornings. No better time!’

‘Why do you wake up so early?’ Arthur grits out. He doesn’t mean it interrogatively, but rhetorically. ‘It’s ridiculous! How can a man rest when you’re shouting and letting in all the cold air -’

‘I thought… I thought you might appreciate the morning call?’

‘ _Don’t_ do it,’ Arthur says. ‘Just stay in bed and keep it warm. Do your _job_.’

Merlin presses his lips together. They really are a most sweet shade of pink, and full as cushions. 

‘I have duties for Gaius to complete in the mornings,’ he says mulishly.

‘Well, you’ll have to get someone else,’ says Arthur. ‘I’m sure he won’t miss you for a few hours.’

‘But -’

‘Go tell Gaius.’

Merlin presses his lips together again, then sighs and toddles off to Gaius. Arthur watches, catching the not-quite-surreptitious glances they throw at him, and then Merlin returns.

‘All right.’

*

Arthur is positive about his next sleeping experience. When Merlin slips into his chambers, he is already tucked up in bed, reading a light missive by candlelight.

‘I’m very much looking forward to a good night’s rest,’ he tells Merlin pointedly as he shrugs out of his clothes and into Arthur’s woollen sleeping garb.

Merlin crawls in beside, squints briefly and uncomprehendingly at Arthur’s missive, and burrows silently into the pillow beside. Arthur looks down at the messy spray of black hair, and feels instantly warmer. He sets down the missive, extinguishes the flame, and settles down beside.

He awakens in a cocoon of warmth. When he blinks open his eyes, Merlin is there, bright blue eyes peering into his.

‘Oh good, you’re up,’ says Merlin. ‘I’ll leave you to it then.’

He scrambles out of the covers.

*

The next few mornings are like this. Arthur can’t quite vocalise it, but it weighs on his mind, how quickly Merlin scuttles out when he awakens. It’s not as though he’s diseased. He is the king. Merlin should be honoured to spend those hours with him, in his comfortable bed.

But it is something else too. When he watches the slim, retreating form. It is odd to share a bed with someone, yet know nothing about them. He thinks back to that image of Merlin and Gaius, heads bent together in familiar collusion. 

The next night, with the candles smoking into the blackness, Arthur probes the air with a question.

‘Will you tell me about where you grew up?’

There’s a rustling. Merlin’s body flipping over. ‘What brought this on?’ he says.

‘I’m just…’ Arthur huffs. ‘I’m just… making conversation, all right. I’m sorry. I-’

‘I’m only pulling your leg.’ Merlin chuckles. ‘I’ll tell you. Grew up with my mother, in Ealdor.’

‘You’ve mentioned,’ says Arthur. He isn’t interrupting - just remembering.

‘Yes,’ says Merlin. ‘It was very small, but beautiful. Less people than this entire castle, I’d wager. But we got on. We had our farms, we looked out for each other.’ He sighs. ‘You know what I miss the most?’

‘What?’

‘During our midwinter festivals, we’d all pack into one of the houses. We’d feast, have a fire raging, sing, dance… My mother would make a special cake. She’d bury a little sweetmeat inside. They’re expensive for us, you see. She would have to journey to the nearest town to buy one. But it tasted heavenly. We’d cut the cake, divide it up among all the villagers, and one lucky person would have the slice with the sweetmeat.’ 

Arthur can hardly imagine it. A sweetmeat, a mere trifle, being so treasured? He grew conscious of the gap between them.

‘What about your mother now?’ he asks, though he dreads the answer.

There is no reason to. ‘She lives there still,’ says Merlin. A pause. ‘I haven’t seen her in years.’ Another pause, then, ‘How do you celebrate the midwinter?’

‘The usual,’ says Arthur. ‘Feast with all the nobles. And then we’d exchange gifts.’ It seems such a showy, tasteless affair in contrast to Merlin’s celebrations. He is conscious of its silliness. ‘It never seemed to mean very much.’

‘That’s a shame,’ says Merlin. ‘They always looked fun when Lot had them.’

‘Do you…’ Arthur pauses. ‘Do you regret that he is no longer king?’

Merlin snorts. ‘Couldn’t care less. Us peasants, we don’t care who rules over us. As long as they leave us alone, that’s all we ask for.’

When Arthur wakes up, he holds onto Merlin’s wrist to stop him from sitting up.

‘Stay a while,’ he says.

*

On the eve of midwinter, Arthur waits nervously for Merlin to arrive. The flame is piled high, the curtains drawn against frosted panes, the mattress lined with wool.

He slips in, wrapped in a rough cloak. It’s the first time Arthur has seen him wear it, a testament to the cold outside. Arthur beckons him to the fire.

‘What’s this?’ says Merlin. ‘Not tired yet?’

‘Not quite,’ says Arthur, thrown and awkward. His heart is stuttering. ‘I just th- I wan- sorry. Sorry. I -’

‘Take your time,’ says Merlin, forehead drawing down.

‘I got this made for you,’ says Arthur. He reaches behind him, for a plate of the little cake, and places it in Merlin’s hands.

‘What?’

‘It’s midwinter tomorrow, and I wanted to give you a gift,’ says Arthur hurriedly. ‘I got the kitchens to make it. I don’t know if it’s like the one your mother made, but -’

‘It’s the cake!’ says Merlin. ‘Arthur!’ He picks up the fork and sinks it into the sumptuous, syrup-soaked sponge of it. 

‘There’s a sweetmeat in it,’ says Arthur. ‘I thought, instead of you looking for it, you could have a small cake which would definitely contain one.’

Merlin lifts the fork to his mouth, and hums contentedly around it. ‘Oh, it’s delicious. You shouldn’t have! I didn’t get you anything.’

‘It’s not much,’ says Arthur. But it is. It is a declaration, of sorts. He knows that he is on the cusp of something, something he can’t quite name - something he is afraid to name. 

Little frightens him. Lot’s armies roiling before his did not frighten him. He has seen blood and disease and the supernatural, he has stood on the precipice of death many a time with those he loves and rules. But this is infinitely, infinitely more frightening than that.

He watches, fearful, as Merlin devours each morsel of that dripping cake, when he chases loose crumbs with the edge of his fork and sucks them into his sumptuous mouth. He is stiff with it when Merlin, inevitably, leans forward and puts his syrup-sticky mouth on his.

Then, he is liberated.

He presses back, not daring to separate his lips though they stick to Merlin’s. When Merlin parts his mouth to breathe, he chases after its flavour, its warmth. He clutches at Merlin’s arms, winds his elbows about his shoulders, clings on.

‘Oh Arthur,’ whispers Merlin. ‘Are you real? How are you like this? How do you do this to me?’ He hugs at his own chest, as though trying to express something unnameable.

‘Come to bed with me,’ says Arthur, kissing him again for good measure. Their kisses become lost in more kisses, smack upon sticky smack sliding seamlessly onto each other. ‘Come to bed, my love.’

Would that they stay there forever.

**Author's Note:**

> If you like the enemies-to-lovers trope then check out [my gf's gay novel](http://valeaida.tumblr.com/post/149576789996/an-elegy-info-post), illustrated by me!


End file.
